Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Robert sat atop his horse in the middle of a storm that had already drowned his men. The battle was lost. He knew it.

He had known it the moment the javelins rained down like a storm of iron and death, the moment the cries of the dying drowned out the clamor of battle. And yet, here he was, barking orders into the abyss, trying to salvage a sinking ship with a bucket full of holes.

”Hold the line! Hold the fucking line!” His voice was raw from shouting, but it might as well have been the wind carrying empty words. The mercenaries scattered, retreating in droves, shoving past each other, tripping over corpses, their panic spreading like wildfire. Some still clung to their weapons, but their eyes had already lost the fight.

”Form up! Don’t turn your backs!” Robert roared again, spurring his horse forward. A few turned their heads toward him, but the chaos was too thick, the fear too great. They weren’t an army—they were a rabble, an undisciplined mob that had been promised silver and found only blood waiting for them.

He gritted his teeth. He was on a fool’s quest.

His gaze flicked across the battlefield.

There—one of his men, a hulking brute with a scar across his brow, tried to fend off one of the savages. He thrusted his spear desperately, piercing at the air, but the Voghondai warrior dodged with inhuman ease, his axe flashing once—twice—and the mercenary’s arm went limp, a spray of crimson painting the earth. The brute fell to his knees, eyes wide, before the final blow split his skull like a melon.

Robert turned, catching sight of another desperate scene—two mercenaries trying to back away from the Black Stripes. These men weren’t savages like the Voghondai, but they fought with a cruelty that was almost worse. One of them had a mace, and when he swung it against the mercenary’s shield, it didn’t just dent it—it caved it in, sending splinters into the man’s face, his screams short-lived as the next strike shattered his jaw. The last of the pair dropped his weapon, hands raised in surrender, but the Black Stripe soldier just sneered before breaking his skull

Robert clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the reins of his horse. The battle was beyond lost—it was a slaughter. The enemy forces had broken through the lines, and the remaining mercenaries weren’t retreating in an orderly fashion; they were running for their lives, tripping over the fallen, shoving their own comrades out of the way in their desperation to escape.

For the briefest moment, as chaos churned around him and the screams of dying men filled his ears, Robert wondered—Was this what Lord Ormund felt?

Did his old liege’s brother sit atop his horse, surrounded by ruin, watching his army break like shattered glass? Did he know that the tide had already swallowed him before the water even reached his neck?

Robert exhaled, tilting his head upward, his breath misting in the cold air. The sky was clear, a cruel contrast to the carnage below. Perhaps this is only right, he thought bitterly. He had betrayed his liege. He had abandoned a sinking ship, and now he found himself standing on another, water already at his ankles. If this is justice, then so be it.

His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

He looked around—the men were breaking completely now. Fleeing, flailing, dying. To his right, he caught sight of the enemy smashing into the last semblance of a formation. The line bent inward, then collapsed like a broken ribcage, mercenaries trampled underfoot as the warriors carved through them like butchers.

Robert didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He kicked his horse forward.

The beast surged ahead, knocking a fleeing mercenary to the ground, trampling another under its hooves. The chaos barely registered. His heart pounded, his mind already accepting what was to come. He would not die with his back turned.

If the gods had any mercy left for a man like him, they would grant it on the battlefield.

He gritted his teeth, raised his sword, and charged into the fray.

Robert’s eyes flickered to the left just in time to see a mercenary’s skull cave in with a sickening crunch, bone fragments and brain matter spraying outward like a burst wineskin. The man who delivered the blow ripped his warhammer free from the ruined head and turned, locking eyes with Robert.

For a brief moment, Robert caught the only visible part of the soldier’s face—his eyes, wide with something that was not fear, not even anger, but sheer, unshaken greed. Then, to Robert’s disbelief, the man didn’t turn to flee, nor brace to receive the charge. He ran at him.

Robert had seen his fair share of desperate men, but this was something else entirely. It took him aback for just a second, but instinct took over, and his grip on his sword tightened. As the footman closed in, Robert swung down, aiming for the soft, exposed flesh of the man’s neck.

The soldier’s shield snapped up like a steel wall. The blow that should have taken his head clean off instead sent sparks flying as the edge of Robert’s blade scraped off the iron-rimmed wood. The impact made the footman take a single step back, but he did not falter.

Robert pressed forward, guiding his horse into another lunge, delivering a second strike, then a third. Each time, his blade came down with the force of a thunderclap, and each time, the footman held.

Robert switched angles, feinting a high blow before hacking downward at the shoulder. The strike landed—but it was met with an unyielding wall of steel. The breastplate did not even dent, and the chainmail beneath remained untouched. Again and again, he struck, his blade cutting against armor, but never through it. Every slash to the torso merely glanced off, every cut aimed at the arms failed to even scratch the linked rings of mail.

The only way through this man was through his neck or his head.

The footman knew it but did not attack and take advantage of the fact that he had a blunt weapon. He did not lunge, nor strike, nor even shift his weight forward. He simply stood there, shield raised, blade held back, unmoving as a statue of iron and flesh, except for the small steps he took back.

Robert’s brow furrowed. Why wasn’t he—

Then he felt it. Hands.

Gripping at his back. Clutching at his armor. Tugging him down.

His stomach twisted, a cold wave of dread washing over him.

”Fuck!” Robert cursed, twisting his body, trying to shake them off. But more hands came, grasping his arms, his legs, pulling him from the saddle. He lashed out, his elbow connecting with a face, the sickening crunch of a nose breaking echoing in his ears. But it wasn’t enough. More hands clamped down like iron shackles, dragging him further from his horse.

He realized, too late, what had happened.

The footman had never needed to attack. He was bait, a distraction, keeping Robert’s attention locked while his comrades swarmed from behind like wolves onto a wounded stag.

Robert snarled, thrashing against the weight of bodies pressing down on him. Boots stamped onto his arms, knees dug into his back, and his sword was wrenched from his grip. He managed to turn his head just in time to see the footman—the one with the battered shield, its surface scarred with cut after cut from Robert’s blade—step forward, raising it high.

Then he smashed it straight into Robert’s face.

A burst of pain. A flash of white. A ringing in his ears.

The world swayed, tilting on its axis as Robert struggled to stay conscious. His vision blurred, the faces of his attackers swimming in and out of focus. He barely registered the cold steel pressing against his throat until the footman knelt over him, dagger in hand, his breath heavy from the exertion of battle.

”Yield,” the man growled, his voice low and rough, the edge of the blade biting into Robert’s skin.

Robert’s chest heaved, his mind racing , the sting of the dagger at his throat, the taste of blood in his mouth.

”Fucking Yield!” the footman repeated, his tone sharper this time, the blade pressing harder.

Robert glared up at the footman, blood filling his mouth, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. His head pounded, his vision blurred at the edges, but still, he managed a wicked grin.

Then he spat.

A thick glob of blood and spit splattered across the man’s face, streaking down his cheek and onto his beard. ”Just a Whore’s son,I don’t yeld to dogs” Robert snarled through clenched teeth, managing a smile.

The footman did not flinch. He merely wiped the blood off with the back of his gauntlet, exhaling through his nose, maybe even thinking about fulfilling his wish

”Commander wants him alive,” another soldier said from behind probably wanting to make sure that his comrade did not do anything unwise

’’I know...’’ the soldier Robert spat on said as he turned the dagger around.

’’Lucky fucker...’’

Robert barely registered it before the footman’s dagger hilt crashed into his forehead.